Holiday From Hell
by ObssessiveFanatic
Summary: John convinces Sherlock that it's time for a holiday. He should have known that a case would find them anyway...but he refuses to let it ruin his hard-earned holiday.
1. Packing

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**_

_**Word Count: 962**_

Hello, to you wonderful people who clicked on my story even though I have a crummy summary!

This isn't my first FanFiction, but it is my first on my new account. I had to delete my old one because I re-read what I have written and didn't like it one bit.

This is my first _ever_ Sherlock fanfic and I'm not sure how it is going to go. This idea came to me when I was away on holidays, in Spain, and wondered what it would be like if Sherlock and John went on holiday, yeah…I have weird thoughts.

When I came home from my holiday my friend got me even more excited about this idea. (Personally, I think that she just likes the thought of Benedict Cumberbatch in swimming trunks)

So, without further ado…we continue!

**Chapter 1: Packing**

"Sherlock!" John's angry voice came from the bottom of the stairs.

Sherlock sighed and made his way to the top of the stairs; from which John's voice had rang out. John had been out all day, doing lord knows what while Sherlock had stayed cooped up in their flat conducting his experiments in peace.

_That wasn't going to last long_, he thought; judging by John's tone of voice.

"Yes?" He called down politely; he could see John at the bottom of the stairs looking extremely irritated. Sherlock had no clue on how he could have possibly irritated him as they hadn't seen each other since the night before.

John glared at up at him. He really wasn't in the mood for Sherlock's games today, he'd had the worst day at the surgery, simple and boring patients to see, nothing interesting at all; sometimes he even wondered why he worked there. Then he remembered that Mrs Hudson would eventually throw him out if he didn't pay the rent.

Seeing as he would be stuck on a plane with Sherlock for nearly four hours and they would have to spend two weeks together in a foreign country; he decided that he didn't want to argue with him just yet.

_Just keep calm, _he thought to himself, _whatever he's done I can handle it maturely and sensibly._

"Have you packed?" He asked, starting to ascend the stairs toward Sherlock.

"Have I what?" Sherlock asked looking thoroughly confused, and starting to get bored of the conversation; walked back into the flat and into the kitchen and started tinkering with his microscope.

When John reached the flat it was all he could do not to groan out loud. Sherlock had left the flat looking like it had been hit by a bomb. Files of old cases were scattered about the floor, most of the books had been pulled off the shelves and the kitchen table was nowhere to be seen; as it was covered in Sherlock's experimenting equipment.

"So?" John asked testily, nearly forgetting about trying to stay calm.

"What?" Sherlock replied, not even looking up from his inspection of the specimen he had under the microscope.

"Have you packed your suitcase for our trip?" John repeated as he made his way towards the kitchen.

"Oh! Packing…no, I thought I'd leave it to you." Sherlock replied easily, as if it gave him no guilt for leaving such a tedious job to his flatmate… actually, he probably didn't feel any guilt.

John stopped himself from screaming out loud in his frustration, but just barely. He settled for stomping about the kitchen while making himself a cup of tea, glaring at the kettle as if it had personally offended him.

"I'll take a cup too." Sherlock's voice reached his ears, but John just ignored it.

_Let him make his own tea, the lazy sod, _John thought angrily, slamming the milk down on the counter with so much force that most of the liquid spilt over the top.

He sighed and grabbed a tea towel to wipe up his mess, picked up his cup of tea and then relocated to his armchair.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock finally looked up from his observations and frowned; he expected John to scream and shout at him for not doing what he had asked him to do so many times the previous day. This reaction, however, was completely unexpected. John hadn't even _looked_ at him yet.

"John?" He called, wondering about John's apparent lack of reaction.

John completely ignored Sherlock in favour of picking up yesterdays Newspaper and beginning to read an article about the current economic crisis, something that didn't really interest him; but it was better than listening to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up and plodded over to John's armchair and stared down at him, willing John to look up and acknowledge his presence but he did the exact opposite, he just turned the page of his newspaper and carried on reading without even glancing up at Sherlock.

"John." Sherlock's voice had taken on a whiny edge, he was starting to sound like a petulant child and yet John still didn't look up, knowing it would irritate Sherlock further.

Sherlock glared at John irritable; he didn't take well to being ignored.

_Fine, _Sherlock thought, _I'll show him._

With a final venomous look at John, Sherlock stomped off towards his bedroom to start packing.

John smirked as he put down the newspaper and picked up his tea.

_That worked perfectly, _he mused smugly.

ҨҨҨ

About an hour later an exhausted and sweaty Sherlock collapsed into his chair with a relieved sigh. He had finally finished packing his extra-large suitcase. He had been running around his room while trying to dodge all of his science equipment, digging around for his clothes in the mess that was his bedroom.

"All done," he commented to John, who did nothing more than raise an eyebrow in amusement at the sight of a dishevelled looking Sherlock. The scene playing out in front of him was quite an amusing one; as Sherlock rarely looked so flustered.

"What's done?" John asked even though he knew exactly what Sherlock meant; he wanted to hear him say it.

Sherlock glared ferociously.

"The packing is done, I've finally finished." John stifled a chuckle as he sounded so putout about it; like it had taken an enormous amount of work on his part.

Evidently he didn't hide his amusement very well; as Sherlock huffed and stomped off towards the kitchen and his experiment which was still bubbling away.

John smiled slightly and checked his watch; saw that it was only six o'clock and decided he would put on the telly and watch some rubbish shows.

_At least everything is sorted for tomorrow._

_ҨҨҨ_

Thank you for reading my fanfic, I hope you enjoyed it!

If anybody has any suggestions where I should send Sherlock and John on holiday, please message me, as I haven't got a clue.

I really enjoy having feedback, so please leave me a review, they make me feel good inside :)


	2. Airport

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock**_

_**Word Count: 1,100**_

Thanks to anybody who read the last chapter; I had quite a few views and a couple of favourites and alerts too.

A special thanks to Dancing Eyes who was the first (and only) person to review my new fanfic; thank you very much! Thanks for your help in where I am going to send them. John chose somewhere warm. You reviewed as I was writing this update and I was feeling kinda down because of the no review thing; but you put me back in a good mood :)

I'm a bit gutted to only get one review though; but I'm just telling myself that you're all shy.

Also, I only put the story up about three days ago; so I didn't give you much time.

I really, really, really like getting reviews; so if you would leave me one I would be very grateful!

Okay, pleading over; on to chapter two!

**Chapter 2: The Airport**

Sherlock sighed impatiently as he stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to their flat; John was really taking his sweet time in coming down. Well, if we miss our plane it will be his entire fault; he decided as he tapped his foot impatiently.

Finally having enough of waiting, he called up. "John, what is taking you so long?"

Then John appeared at the top of the stairs, awkwardly carrying both his, and Sherlock's, large suitcases.

"Well, sorry for taking so long Sherlock." He called down sarcastically, "it's not as if these suitcases are heavy or anything!"

John hobbled down the stairs, mentally cursing Sherlock with every swear word he knew (and that was a lot). You didn't come back from the army without picking up a few cuss words. When he finally reached the bottom of the staircase, he pushed Sherlock's case towards him and pulled out the handle on his own and began it wheel it out behind him as he stormed out of the flat; still cursing Sherlock to high heaven.

Sherlock scurried after John and flagged down a cab. The cabbie helped John load the suitcases into the back of the cab as Sherlock slid into the backseat without even offering to help. But, then again, he never does.

"Heathrow airport please," John told the cabbie when they were both seated in the cab. The cabbie nodded and began to drive them away from 221b Baker Street.

"So, are you excited?" John asked Sherlock; who looked up from his Blackberry incredulously.

"How old do you think I am?" He demanded, "A five year old? I don't get excited over silly little things like going on holiday."

"Okay, okay, I was only asking." John held up his hands in surrender and then decided against making anymore conversation because he would only end up getting snapped at by Sherlock and he wanted Sherlock in the best mood possible; so that then he would actually enjoy the holiday. So he settled for looking out the window instead; at the familiar, yet still beautiful, sights of London; sights that he wouldn't be seeing again for another two weeks. The thoughts filled him with glee.

ҨҨҨ

Sherlock and John stood underneath a shelter outside of Heathrow airport; trying not to get absolutely soaking wet after the cabbie had dropped them off and drove away.

"Well, I hope the destination you have chosen for us has a better climate than this." Sherlock said petulantly, shaking his head to get rid off the droplets that had landed there during his run from the cab to the shelter; leaving John to collect the bags, yet again.

"It said in the brochure that it has sun basically all year round," John answered, sounding reasonably calm while he rummaged around in his rucksack for all of their travel documents. Then, upon finding them, he then entered the terminal with Sherlock following grudgingly behind.

John squinted at the board that had all the details of every flight on it. It was very hard to get a proper look because, even though he doesn't like to admit it; he is not the tallest of men and people kept walking into his line of sight.

Sherlock smirked a little and asked, "Where are we going again?"

John glared at him when he saw his smug expression but grudgingly answered, "Palma."

Sherlock nodded as his eyes scanned the board for the name. He found it almost immediately and saw that the check-in desk numbers were desks ten to fifteen. He told John as much and led him over to the correct desks and joined one of the lengthy queues.

Sherlock sighed and resigned himself to wait.

ҨҨҨ

John smiled politely at the lady seated behind the check-in desk as she batted her eyes suggestively when he passed her their necessary forms.

Sherlock held back a snort of disgust.

He hated it when women flirted with John. John didn't have time for dating; Sherlock made sure of that. He needed John to be able to help him whenever he needed him, which was very often; not that Sherlock would admit it.

He did glare at her though and she shifted uncomfortably under his disapproving gaze; she then smiled brightly at John and handed him back their passports.

"Okay, all of the paperwork seems to be in order. Could you place your suitcase on the scales please?" She said in a false, bright tone; smiling that annoying smile once again. Sherlock felt the unbearable urge to strangle the woman.

John nodded and heaved his heavy suitcase onto the scales; seemingly oblivious to the fact that his best friend was moments away from committing murder. The annoying lady placed a sticker on the suitcase and watched it as it moved onto the conveyer belt behind the desks; where it would then be taken with the other luggage and placed on the plane.

"And yours?" She asked Sherlock politely. He grunted and copied John, and with a final smile the desk lady called for the next holiday goers and waved to them as they left.

John waved back with a smile. "She was nice," he commented to Sherlock offhandedly.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat; but otherwise did not reply.

"Well, would you like to get a coffee or something?" John asked; gesturing to the Starbucks they were standing next to.

"Yeah, okay," Sherlock replied as John led the way towards the shop.

Sherlock stirred his coffee without interest. He and John were sitting opposite each other; both seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

John cleared his throat slightly and asked, "Any interesting cases lately?"

"None," Sherlock said disappointedly. "Lestrade hasn't asked me to assist on a case for a couple of weeks. London really is most assuredly dull at this time of year."

John chuckled. "Maybe all of the criminals are on their holidays," he suggested wryly; lips turned up in a tiny, adorable smile that Sherlock loved.

Sherlock scowled at him, but couldn't help a slight grin from settling on his features. John always had this effect on him. It's like his smile was contagious; Sherlock liked the side of himself that came out of him when he was around John. As cheesy as it sounds, John really brought put the best in him; as Lestrade liked to tease him.

A female on the airport speakers announced the arrival of their flight.

"Flight A-690 to Palma is now boarding. All passengers please proceed to gate 5."

"Well then; let's go catch our plane."

ҨҨҨ

Thanks for reading.

For those of you who do not know where Palma is (I'm sure most of you don't) it's the capital of Mallorca which is one of the Canary Islands, which are near Spain.

Please leave me a review, feedback only encourages me to update :)


	3. Flight Part 1

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**_

_**Word Count: 740**_

Hello to whoever's bothering to read this authors note! I want to thank everybody who reviewed/alerted/faved etc, it really means a lot, and I enjoy hearing what you have to say about this story, as this is meant for you people; not me!

As you can probably already tell; I'm pretty excited :)

For two main reasons really; one is that I am going on a school trip to London one week tomorrow and I can't wait to get on that bus and watch Sherlock for 4-5 hours (however long it takes to get to London) with my besties. Another reason is me and my two bestest friends ever are having a film day/night on Saturday, which we have estimated to last around 21 hours…without stop…

I really shouldn't be excited for Saturday yet as it's only Tuesday, but we are going to watch so many awesome films! Like Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, Lord of the Rings, X-Men…

I've just realised how nerdy we actually are…Well, we'll probably miss most of the films because we will be arguing over whom is better, Captain America, Iron man, or Hulk.

(IRON MAN ALL THE WAY!)

So, are you all excited? Yes? No?

Well then; let's crack on!

**Chapter 3: The Flight Part 1**

John grinned to himself as he stowed his hand luggage in the compartment above his head. The thought that they were actually going on holiday was finally starting to sink in. No more running after bad guys in the damp streets of London, no more examining the mutilated bodies of poor people who had been murdered. Now it would just be sun, sea and fun!

He sat in his allocated seat, still grinning like a maniac and looked over to where Sherlock had been placed; which was-thankfully- just across the aisle from John. He did not want Sherlock to have to sit by some random stranger and get into a fight before they had even left the country.

"I hope whoever has to sit by me is not completely insufferable." He muttered to John as a baby in the front of the plane began to wail loudly.

"You don't have to talk to them Sherlock, just don't...don't act like you usually do." John said uncomfortably.

"What do you mean 'act like I usually do'?" Sherlock demanded, quite offended, even though he wouldn't admit that it just wasn't his thing.

"Don't make them feel uncomfortable. Don't deduce anything about them, well actually, you can; just don't tell them what you've worked out." John told him, sincerely wishing that the person who would sit by Sherlock wouldn't be annoyed by his deductions; if he decided to voice them, that is. The probability of that happening - incredibly high.

Sherlock huffed and slumped in his seat; ready to sulk for the whole journey…

ҨҨҨ

Sherlock glared at the five year old boy that was sitting in the seat beside him.

_Honestly, if your going to be sick; go to the bathroom_, Sherlock thought meanly. The boy started another round of violent retching, as if to mock Sherlock's thoughts.

John had dosed off about half an hour into the flight; which left him with nobody to talk to and nothing for him to do.

He sighed for what seemed like the millionth time since the plane had taken off. Planes weren't his first choice of travel, as he usually avoided them at all costs, but this time he had let John have his way; for some reason John just had that power over him and he did not like it one bit. John could usually make him do anything that he wanted (all he had to do was ignore Sherlock until he finally got lonely and decided to do whatever he didn't do in the first place.)

Even Lestrade had remarked upon it once, a look of befuddlement on his features as he watched the small doctor order Sherlock about with ease. What surprised him even more was that Sherlock actually _listened _to him.

Sherlock glared at nothing in particular; trying to ignore the boy still being sick next to him. Then, to his ever-growing annoyance; another person started to be sick! Ugh, what is with these passengers! There had been at least a dozen people being sick in the last hour, it was unlikely that they all suffered from travel sickness; so what's causing them all to become sick…?

Oh no.

He looked at the boy's empty plate that was on the tray next to his and deduced that he had eaten the pasta and chocolate pudding. His eyes scanned the plane to where the other sick passengers were sitting to see what they had eaten.

All of them had eaten the chocolate pudding.

Food poisoning.

Great, just great.

Nearly everyone on board had eaten the same, apart from a select few, which included himself and John.

Speaking of John, who had now woken up from his short nap, he started blinking blearily around him. He counted about a dozen people being sick.

"Lots of people travel sick, aren't there?" He mumbled to Sherlock; who smiled a thin smile at the question.

"They are not travel sick, John. It's food poisoning." Sherlock told him; John's tired eyes widened.

"Really?" He asked.

"Yes, John."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock sighed, "I have looked to see what every passenger that's being sick has eaten and they have all consumed the chocolate pudding, and there are too many people for them all to be travel sick so it must have been something else; hence the chocolate pudding theory."

"Well, it's a good thing that I didn't have the pudding; and the fact that you don't eat!"

ҨҨҨ

So sorry about the shortness, I usually like my chapters to be at least 1,000 words, but I'm getting tired now; my excitement has vanished suddenly.

The next chapter will be the rest of the flight.

I read a fanfic about Sherlock and John being on a plane and everybody getting food poisoning before and I thought it was a good idea, so I used it, but I'm trying to be a different as possible to what they wrote. I can't really remember who wrote it; but if you _are_ reading this I'm not trying to rip you off!

Thanks for reading; now how about you drop me a review?


	4. FlightHotel Part 2

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock**_

_**Word count:2,110**_

Hello to anybody who might still be reading this story. If I was reading this story, I too would have given up by now…so thank you if you are still here.

I have no real excuse for not updating, but I just haven't had enough time to sit and write a chapter between school, friends and family. But the good news for you dear readers is that it is officially the summer holidays and I'm going to be in a caravan for the duration of the six weeks that we have off school; therefore I will have plenty of time to write up the chapters of this story.

The only problem is that I do not have any internet connection in my caravan (how will I survive?) so I'll have to publish the chapters that I have written when I go home on weekends.

I'm going to aim to put one chapter a week, but if I fail to do so, I apologise.

Now onwards with this very long over-due chapter!

**Chapter 4: the Flight/Landing Part 2**

John sat straight-backed in his seat for the duration of the flight; trying to ignore the sounds of people being sick all around him. The sound alone always made him feel vaguely ill himself, so he tried not to listen. He sang Christmas carols in his head and tried to fall asleep but neither could drown out the sounds; or the _smell, _for that matter.

He could not wait to get off this godforsaken plane. He had started the flight off as excited as a person can be but now all he wanted was to get off.

He glanced over at Sherlock who was looking completely at ease; not appearing at all fazed at the sight of so many people being sick all at once. John wished that he could feel like that.

All of the flight attendants were running about like headless chickens, trying to deal with every person who was being sick; providing them with sick bags, tissues and water.

In all honesty John thought that it was a very amusing sight and he probably would laugh about it if he didn't feel so ill himself.

John checked his watch and nearly cried out in relief when he saw that they didn't have long left on the flight. They should be arriving in about ten minutes.

Now all he had to do was brace himself to endure what was left of the flight.

ҨҨҨ

Sherlock huffed loudly as he and John joined yet another queue in passport control.

"Why are there so many damn queues?" He exclaimed angrily to John.

They had arrived in Palma at about seven thirty pm local time and ever since all they had done was queue up for one thing or another. They were always the last to join a queue; there didn't seem to be that many people on the same flight as them when they were actually on the plane but now it seemed like there were an infinite number of people that had gotten off the same plane as they did and were joining the same queues that they were in.

"Because they have to do the proper checks, Sherlock." John replied reasonably, even though he was actually getting annoyed at the length of the lines too.

"If one of these passengers were carrying a bomb they would have let it off by now." Sherlock said, annoyed.

An airport worker who had overheard this remark gave him a disapproving glare. John elbowed him in the stomach and watched in satisfaction as his breath left him in an audible huff.

"Just shut up and wait patiently, it shouldn't be long now." John told him as they slowly moved forward in the queue.

Sherlock didn't reply.

He was beginning to wish that he had never let John talk him into coming on holiday. He wished he was back in the flat with a nice cup of tea (which John would have made), and pondering over a new case.

In some ways he was glad for the distraction from boredom; if he was still back in the flat he would undoubtedly be bored out of his mind as he hadn't had any interesting cases to capture his attention.

Finally they had come to the front of the queue. The man behind the desk barely glanced at them or their passports before he hurried them along and called for the next passengers.

"All that waiting for a two second check; he barely looked at us!" Sherlock grumbled to himself and made sure to not let John hear him.

They made their way to the front of the airport where all of the taxis and buses would be parked; ready to take the tourists to their hotels.

John and Sherlock climbed into the nearest taxi. John read out the hotel's address to the driver and after a few minutes of misunderstandings they were finally starting the hour's drive from the airport to their hotel.

ҨҨҨ

The taxi drove off into the night and left Sherlock and John standing on the pavement outside of the hotel with all of their luggage, gaping in disbelief.

"It looked different in the picture on the booking site." John said weakly.

"You mean it didn't look like a crack-house?" Sherlock shot back sarcastically.

And it looked exactly like that.

The letters of the name of the hotel were in huge yellow lights above the revolving doors of the front entrance; some letters had even fallen off sometime during the hotel's existence. The hotel now looked like it was called 'Hot Carl' instead of its actual name 'Hotel Carlota'. The outside walls of the hotel had originally been painted white, but now the paint was flaking off and the colour had dimmed; the white had turned grey. There was a shabby unkempt garden in front of the entrance. The outside balconies had shabby shutters which were covered in bird droppings; the actual balcony itself was only big enough to fit one person-standing, not even one deck chair-and the bars stopping people the guests from falling to their deaths were crooked. None of the lights in any of the rooms were on; all things considered the hotel had a very dark, dirty and unappealing appearance.

"Let's go and get checked in shall we?" John suggested, leading the way to the hotel door-dodging the untamed bushes in the front garden-leaving Sherlock to follow in his wake.

John hoped that the interior of the hotel would be better than the exterior; he was bitterly disappointed.

The creamy colour of the walls were draped with mossy green mould in the top corners of the room; the chairs standing next to the bar to the left were wonky and looked like a feather would make them fall. The bar itself was practically non-existent as it was so small. The wooden bar top was covered in a thick layer of dust, and each bottle of alcohol had a strange brownish tint. The disgusting linoleum floors were patterned with cliché black and white squares, the service in the actual reception area had no staff to speak of; all there was was an unattended desk. The old cash register looked thousands of years old; like it had survived both world wars and all of the civil wars.

Sherlock and John walked cautiously up the desk. John rang the bell that was sat on the counter and waited for somebody to come out and serve them. Sherlock surveyed his surroundings without interest but in slight disgust and John leaned against the counter.

The whole place was empty; not a single person in sight-even behind the bar and nobody had come out to serve them behind the desk-it wasn't even late, only about half past eight in the night.

_Where is everyone? _John thought to himself just as somebody came out from behind the desk.

The man, no _boy_, was dressed in such ugly attire. He was wearing black from head to toe with huge headphones that covered all of his ears. His horribly studded face peaked out from beneath at least a full eighteen years worth of bullying; the thing most teenagers dread, acne. When he finally noticed a customer, the look of surprise on his face worried both John and Sherlock immensely. He pulled down his massive headphones slowly; as if waiting for Sherlock and John to turn and run. When his ears were finally revealed, the huge diamond stud on his ear covered almost all of the skin there. The boy smiled, evilly, John thought; a full set of squeaky clean braces almost blinded him.

When the boy reached out his hand for the phone near the cash register, the stupidly sized rings on his small, girlish fingers hit against the desk repeatedly; John guessed it's what the kids called 'bling' these days. He just couldn't keep up with the kids anymore; he didn't even understand what 'sick' meant, he thought it must be pretty bad; he's treated at least twenty teenagers because they were so 'sick' as their friends called them.

The boy picked up the phone almost nervously, holding up one finger to wait, before he turned his back on both Sherlock and John, ignoring their offended, uncomprehending faces.

"Hello, it's me; yeah, it's Doug. Yeah, listen," he lowered his voice considerably; "there's an actual _customer_ here!"

"No word of a lie, Miss. Their actually here!" the boy tapped his fingers against the countertop repeatedly, annoyingly, "two men, one awfully short, one really, really pale; like sickly pale."

There it was! The use of the word 'sick' again!

Hey, wait a minute! Did that guy just call John short? Both Sherlock and John shared an outraged glare.

"Miss, no offence attended or anything; but I've never had a customer here before! What am I supposed to do?" The boy had raised his voice; he risked a glance back at John before almost shying away from the glare that he received in return.

"Yeah, distract them?! How am I supposed to distract them? I think their already onto me…" the boy trailed off; Sherlock and John heard a loud shout on the other end.

"I'll do it, Miss! Don't fire me, please!" The boy nodded his head to whatever the woman on the other line said, and turned back to face his customers; then slammed the phone back down. John had already softened toward the boy; he'd heard the boy beg for his job. Sherlock still disliked everything about the holiday so far.

"Hello, welcome to the Hotel Carlota. If you hadn't already guessed, Carlota is Spanish for the name Charlotte, originally…" the boy continued to ramble on and on.

"Yes, we did know." Sherlock interrupted. "Thank you though; for the unintelligent history lesson on a subject I do not wish to care about and already know. Now, Doug, listen to me. If you do not check us in right now you won't have to worry about being fired; you'd already be on your way to jail for that huge joint of weed in your front right hand pocket. Now, I'll say this one more time to let your small, punish brain comprehend what I'm saying- check us in, NOW!" Sherlock all but shouted at the poor boy (who was currently trying to cover his head so that he could dive behind the desk and curl up into a ball to hide where no one would ever find him again).

"Well, hello, Sirs." The high pitched voice greeted them in a falsely sweet tone from behind Sherlock's left shoulder. He deduced from her awful perfume alone that she was a single middle-aged woman with no purpose in life, running a dead-beat hotel just for fun; two twenty something year old sons, at least three divorced husbands. And this was all deduced from her _perfume_. Damn he's good. John just thought that she wore too much perfume.

"Hello. As my friend here was just saying to this young man, we'd like to book in our reservations now please. And, Miss, that perfume that you're wearing, smells very nice; I could smell you coming from a mile away." John complimented her mockingly; she smiled, thinking it was an actual compliment.

"Why thank you, Mr…?" This time she tried to be seductive, purring out her words. She sounded like a dying cat.

"Watson," John cut in. "John Watson, this here is my friend, Sherlock Holmes; the greatest consulting detective to ever live!"

"Actually, I'm the only consulting detective." Sherlock sneered at the woman; his voice tinged with disdain.

Her false smile dropped almost immediately.

"Well Mister I'm-better-than everyone-else, shall we get you checked in?" The sweet tone she had previously been using was also gone now, leaving annoyance in its place.

"If you would, it would be most appreciated" John cut in smoothly, drawing the woman's attention back to him. The smile was back.

"Of course." She walked behind the desk and started typing away on a laptop which she had pulled up from under the desk.

"Could I have all of your papers please?" John passed her all the necessary forms and answered all of the questions that she asked him.

After ten minutes she was finally done.

"There you go Mr Watson. You and your friend are in room 102, which is on the first floor. There is no elevator, I'm afraid so you will have to take the stairs." She told them once all was complete, handing John the keys to the room.

John nodded, and he and Sherlock left the reception and made their way slowly up the long winding stairs; dragging their suitcases behind them.

ҨҨҨ

Thank you for reading!

An extra long chapter for you since I haven't updated in a long while.

I didn't write all of this, my friend helped me a lot with ideas and she even wrote some of it, so thank you to her :)

All the earlier chapters have been edited, so if you have time go back and read them; tell me if they're any better.

Next chapter should be up next week.


	5. Breakfast

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock**_

_**Word Count:1,059**_

Hello everybody!

Thanks to anybody who added to alert/reviewed/faved this story.

I'm not sure how this chapter is going to go as I've had a bit of writers block lately.

I hope it will not disappoint you though, I've tried my best.

And now, after that way-shorter-than-usual author's note, we can get on with the chapter.

**Chapter 5: Breakfast **

John smiled at the ceiling above him after waking up naturally for the first time in what felt like forever.

He'd been aroused by the sunlight streaming in through the doors that led out onto the balcony; for John that was the perfect way to wake up. He wondered if Sherlock was awake and then thought to himself that he probably was, as he barely slept all night and then was usually up around six in the morning. John couldn't imagine doing that unless he had to, he liked sleep too much.

He stretched his arms above his head and yawned loudly.

_I'd best get up then, _he told himself_, before Sherlock gets bored and decides to go and do something stupid._

He really didn't want to get up from his bed-which was surprisingly comfortable-but he knew he had to, he couldn't leave the other people in the hotel to Sherlock's mercy, he needed to watch him in case he did something stupid.

John rolled out of bed slowly, pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms, decided that he couldn't be bothered to dig around in his suitcase to find a shirt and then left his room to find Sherlock.

He found him in the kitchen sitting at the table reading one of the many science books that he had brought with him-at least he'd have _something_ interesting to do on this holiday-already dressed and nursing a cup of tea in his hand.

John eyed him warily, normally he would be doing something destructive by now out of sheer boredom and the fact that he wasn't was slightly off-putting. Not that John _wanted _him to be destructive; he was just used to it.

"Good morning." Sherlock greeted him from behind his book.

"Good morning." John returned, trying to keep his suspicion out of his voice.

"So, what's the plan for today then?" Sherlock asked after John had made himself a cup of tea and settled himself at the table opposite Sherlock.

"Well, I thought that you could decide." Sherlock replied, still not looking up from the book he was reading. Honestly, if that book-_A Philosophical History- _was actually _so _interesting that Sherlock couldn't even look up from it for two seconds; John would eat his hat.

"How about we go and get some breakfast first, eh? On the information sheet we had last night it says that the restaurant is open until eleven o'clock. What's the time now?" John asked.

"It's," Sherlock consulted his watch, "five minutes past nine o'clock."

"Okay, let me get dressed and we'll head right down. Maybe we can meet some of the other guests."

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"This is the most disgusting buffet I have ever seen!" Sherlock muttered in John's ear as they stand in line at the breakfast buffet. Sherlock can see what vile things that are on offer this morning and isn't really in a hurry to try any of it.

John tries-and fails-to hide a grin at the look of utter revulsion on the detective's face; but when said detective glares at him he sobers immediately.

"Just pick up a plate and pick up anything that looks edible." John advised him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"If we starve out here because there is nothing edible to eat or if we get food poisoning from something that we _did _eat, I'm placing the blame entirely on you, John. It'd be entirely your fault because you're the one who wanted to come on this holiday in the first place!" He hissed.

John smiled slightly as he picked up a piece of okay-looking pineapple, the best looking one on the plate, with his fingers not even bothering to use the tongs that were provided-they were most probably stinking anyway-and then moved further up the buffet.

When they'd gone all the way around the buffet and seen what was on offer; neither John nor Sherlock's plates were full. The good doctor only had one slice of pineapple, a deflated pastry and two pieces of burnt toast (with three small tubs of jam to spread on them of course). Sherlock had picked a short piece baguette with butter to spread on it and some ham to go inside. Sherlock hates that he actually _wants _to eat, and he _is _hungry but nothing here is edible.

Its John's fault that he is hungry of course, before John had come into the picture he could easily go days without eating and it wouldn't faze him; since John has been in his life he'd insisted that Sherlock eat three square meals a day and after a lot of resistance Sherlock finally gave in to the doctor's demands. Now, if he doesn't get enough food he notices it immediately.

He hates it.

He wants to get back to the time when he only ate when it was necessary.

He wanted to keep John happy though and to do this he'd have to eat. Ugh.

He wolfs down his pathetic excuse for a breakfast and sits, sipping a cup of tea, waiting for John to finish.

He takes this time to study John, like he usually does. He always needs time to study John, everything about him has not yet become clear to Sherlock yet, and this both interests him and worries him greatly. That was part of the reason why he was so intrigued by John Watson. He other part is how he reacts when Sherlock does something particularly remarkable. It surprises him every time that it happens. He's used to people reacting angrily towards him whenever he deducts something personal about their lives' that they did not want anybody to know; he is not, however, used to people reacting with awe as John did.

John notices Sherlock looking at him and quickly finishes off his breakfast. He hates it when Sherlock looks at him in that cold, calculating manner. It always makes him feel slightly on edge and he does all that he can to avoid it nowadays.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him.

"Are you finished?" He asked, slightly put out, he could have spent more time analysing him.

"Yes, all done. Let's go." John answers quickly and starts to leave before Sherlock is even out of his chair.

Sherlock downs the rest of his tea in one gulp and rushes to follow John out of the restaurant door.

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Thanks for reading!

I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but I hoped you all enjoyed it.

I have a question for you all too: Would you like this fic to be slash?

I've never written slash before and I don't now if I'd be good at writing it or not but leave me a review and tell me what you think.


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